Fresh bread
by rimz08
Summary: Tag to Season 1 ep 8. A slightly different end to the story.


Of course she's heard about it. Paris is awash with gossip, talk of the Musketeers' success, the cardinal's humiliation and the most newly commissioned man in the regiment. The women in the market can't stop talking about him, his hair, his eyes, swooning. Every one of them wants to be the newest Musketeer's lady love.

If only they knew, she thinks. If only they knew the half of it. The magic his hands can work, the softness of his lips, his taste, his smell. She shakes her head to get rid of the thoughts. He's gone. He's theirs now. Whoever wants him can have him. As long as he lives.

She stays in the kitchen while Athos packs up his things. She understands why he didn't come himself. He doesn't want to see her. Although she had expected better. Is he such a coward? Athos shoots looks at her, accusing, searching. Why has she done this to his littlest brother?

Her husband stands over them, between them, as Athos takes his leave, pack in hand. There will be no more musketeers in his home. She wants to reach out to Athos, take his hand, tell him to look after her boy, who is no longer her boy. She feels the tears pricking at her eyes. She thinks that maybe Athos understands. That maybe his look softens as her husband rudely escorts him out. He looks back over his shoulder at her and gives her an almost imperceptible nod.

Constance always rises early. She loves the morning hours, half light, before anyone else is there to disturb the quiet with their noise. This morning though, she rises even earlier than usual. She bakes the bread from the dough she had set to rise the night before. She takes the bread and a pot of soup and places them into her basket. Making sure that her husband is still asleep she slips from the house, cloak over her head.

The garrison is silent. The gates are open and the old guard on duty nods as she enters. She's a regular here, they all know that. It's no surprise to see her. Her stomach flutters, she worries that she is going to be sick.

She has to see him, make sure he is alright. Just once. She promises herself. But now that she is here she regrets her decision. How will she find him in the garrison? What if someone sees her?

The old man looks at her. She raises a finger to her lips. He nods conspirationally and points a finger in the right direction, raises the number of fingers to indicate the door she should take. Thank goodness for faithful friends, she thinks.

Her legs are shaking as her footsteps echo in the courtyard. She should take her shoes off. But how would she explain her dirty stockings to her darling husband?

The stairs creak slightly as she ascends. At each one she pauses, looks around, but no one else is to be seen. Finally she finds the right door.

She pushes it open as quietly as she can and is shocked by the sight that greets her. Her lover, ex-lover she corrects herself, lies in a bed, covered to his waist with a sheet. His chest is bare but covered in bandages. His face is pale, cut and bruised. She can see the blood on the left side, under his arm. She almost gasps but stops herself. Of course not a coward. Of course, she chastises herself.

The other three are there too. Porthos on the floor, legs sprawled out in front of him. Aramis in a chair next to the bed, head on the mattress, bent over in a position that will surely give him back ache the next day. Athos is in a chair on the other side of the room, head back against the wall. She hears their snores.

Now she removes her shoes, setting down the basket. She slips silently to the bed. She wants to touch him, feel his pulse, but she settles for seeing his chest rise and fall. Beads of sweat lie on his forehead. If he has a fever things could get worse, she knows. Will he die anyway, by the cardinal's hand, but without her husband's help?

She lays the bread and soup on the table. Puts her shoes back on and opens the door. It squeaks loudly and she stops dead, shocked and frightened. Porthos lets out a loud snore, Aramis stirs but doesn't wake. She looks back one last time at d'Artagnan and as she goes to leave a slight movement catches her eye. Athos is looking at her, green eyes on her. He nods, this time not imperceptibly. And with that, she leaves. He is safe in the hands of his friends.

When he wakes he smells something wonderful. The smell of Constance's fresh bread and her perfume mingled together. For a moment he is back there, in her home, she is in his arms, skin to skin, her hair tickling his chin, as she lies on him, fitting perfectly into the crook of his arm. But if she's there, why is he so cold? And why does he hurt so much?

He prises his eyes open and sees Aramis' head on the mattress. The man's unruly hair is tickling his chest. Not quite the same, he thinks, with an internal snort, as he tries to move away from the offending locks.

His movement causes Aramis to stir and sitsup straight, suddenly, with a cry of pain. His hands fly to his back and neck, trying to massage the aches.

Porthos is woken by the commotion and claps a hand on Aramis' back. "Do you never learn?" He asks. "We are going to have you complaining of back pain for a week".

"Oh, so sorry for taking care of the patient. Some gratitude would be nice!" He snorts in reply. "Oh good, you're awake? How is the patient?".

D'Artagnan doesn't answer. He just smiles at his friends.

"Something smells good." He says finally.

And they know that everything is going to be just fine.


End file.
